Outside these gates of river stones and marble,
The skillful maker gathers feathers thin
Into spring scented garlands
For each taker whose fate proclaims his plenitude akin.

The pious traits grow into routes… aortique
Tunnels for the next in line,
Awaiting leaves, tomnatique palms, [rom. toamna- engl. autumn]
A gesture of arrows broken by a steep incline.

Receivers of eternal smile, they measure
slivery skies in height and weight, a stretch
across leftovers’ fumes, devoured tidings
of crystal crusts, once every pulse’s patch.

No name, no voice, no sigh they have,
The heaving inherited by wind, its gusts
Remain within this space chain-linked
And closed for breathing, with body pillars of cemented casts.